


Damask

by paperclipbitch



Series: Femslash100: The Musketeers [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Community: femslash100, F/F, Pre-Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The queen absolutely does not need to be present for Constance’s dress fitting; Constance is sure of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agirlnamedtruth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/gifts).



> For **femslash100** 's drabbleathon before drabbletag 5 closes.
> 
> For **agirlnamedtruth** 's prompt: _dress fitting_.

The queen absolutely does not need to be present for Constance’s dress fitting; Constance is sure of this. It’s a menial little thing she needs to have done – because the clothes that were appropriate and even pretty for the wife of a cloth merchant aren’t nearly suitable enough for court. It’s both exciting and a burden, to have new finery to worry about on top of everything else about her new position. 

There are seamstresses and tailors enough at court, all good at their trade, and there is really no need for Anne to be overseeing the process, making the nervous woman measuring Constance’s waist constantly drop her mouthful of pins, apologising and _your majesty_ -ing. It’s making something Constance wasn’t planning on enjoying ten times worse, actually.

The queen’s gaze is warm and penetrating enough to make Constance’s heart and stomach flutter beneath the bodice being pinned around her, make her wonder if the flush in her cheeks is too obvious and can be explained for something else. Anne’s expression is one of calm innocence; it makes Constance wonder what else she’s hiding, what else she could carry off in plain sight.

Anne steps forward, runs a light fingertip along the neckline of Constance’s dress, touch just skimming the tops of her breasts, pressed eagerly upwards by her corset. Constance’s breath catches, and if she looks anywhere but at the ceiling she’ll be lost.

“This could be tighter, I think,” Anne remarks, light, conversational, helpful.

It’s nothing short of torture.


End file.
